


this is the meanwhile, the in-between

by ilfirin_estel



Series: the free!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Castiel growing wings, Civil war in Heaven, Free!verse, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Swan Song, Sam is in Hell, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilfirin_estel/pseuds/ilfirin_estel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn’t like feeling helpless. He should be <i>better</i> than this.  Growing wings never hurt this badly when he was a fledgling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the meanwhile, the in-between

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure when this is set in the 'verse, but it's somewhere after the upcoming chapter 9 of [Free Until They Cut Me Down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/813127/chapters/1537305). 
> 
> This was written for the prompt SPN – Dean/Castiel, “Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under covers, pretending to sleep, while I’m in the other room.”

Castiel is gripping the bathroom sink so hard that the counter is in danger of cracking.

“Let me see,” Dean says, standing behind Castiel and curving a hand around Castiel’s hip. And Castiel knows the words hidden in that soft command: _I’m worried about you,_ Dean is saying, _I just want to make sure you’re all right._

Dean’s fingers dip beneath Castiel’s shirt, skimming along warm skin—Castiel shivers, grabs Dean’s wrist, and shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, meeting Dean’s steady gaze in the bathroom mirror. Dean doesn’t move, isn’t going to relent. Castiel knows this because it’s turned into a regular argument—one that Castiel always loses.

Dean huffs a disbelieving laugh against the back of Castiel’s neck. “We’re going to keep playing this game, Cas?”

Castiel closes his eyes, sucks in a breath that hits sharp in his lungs. And there are words in that too, the confession spoken before, no use in repeating it: _It_ hurts, _Dean._

“Cas,” Dean breathes—and Castiel hears _I know_ and _you know we have to do this._

Castiel swallows hard, shakes his head again, but it’s not a denial. He knows, he knows. He lets go of Dean’s wrist. “Step back.”

Dean’s warmth against his back disappears. Castiel feels strung tight, the pain between his shoulder blades flaring red-hot as he strips off his shirt and gingerly lets his wings stretch out of his vessel.

Growing wings never hurt this badly when he was a fledgling. He feels incapacitated by it, frustrated that it’s taking so long, that it hurts so much. Though, objectively, he knows he’s lucky. When he was captured by the Rebellion, when they’d burned his wings out of his body, he’d thought he’d never fly again.

Dean’s hands upon the small of his back are light, fingers hesitantly tracing a path up to the bottom of his new wings; the skin there is still tender, vulnerable. The touch isn’t meant to be anything other than comforting, but it draws a hiss from Castiel. His head spins, his knees buckle—Dean clumsily catches him, says, “Easy, easy, you’re okay,” as he leads Castiel out of the bathroom and onto their bed.

Dean helps him lie out on his stomach. All he wants to do is hide—tuck his new wings back into his vessel and curl up into the fetal position. The scarred skin between his shoulders is split, bruises painting his upper back blotchy reds, blues, purples. The new wings can’t be constantly crammed inside his vessel if they’re to grow properly. They’re still small, still growing inch by painful inch in such a short time frame. They are covered in blood and grace each time he manifests them—Castiel can’t clean them himself, can’t reach around without cringing.

He needs Dean’s help. It seems like he’s needed Dean’s help with so many things, so many things he should be able to do himself. Dean has been taking care of him for so long now, helping him with burns, nightmares, adjusting to human life when he had no memory or grace—and now he’s helping Castiel with this too. Castiel wants to back into a corner like a wounded dog, snapping and snarling. He doesn’t like feeling helpless. He should be _better_ than this.

Castiel hates this, he _hates this._

There are two angels in Hell saving Sam Winchester and Adam Milligan from Lucifer’s Cage. There are countless angels protecting the border between Heaven and Earth, keeping Raphael’s Rebellion occupied and confined. And he is _here,_ crippled, shuddering on a guest bed in Bobby Singer’s home. He should be out there, fighting.

Dean runs a hand along Castiel’s shoulder. “Be right back.” Castiel nods, and buries his face in his arms with a sigh. He thinks about sleep, thinks about oblivion, unfeeling—but he can’t drift off. He listens to the sound of a bowl being filled with water, of a towel being wringed out.

Dean comes back and gets to work in silence. Castiel winces as the towel rubs along the arches of his wings, but he grits his teeth and tries to stay still and quiet. Dean’s hands on him are as gentle as possible while still being quick and efficient. Feathers are pulled, straightened, and cleaned—and beneath the pain and humiliation, Castiel is grateful. He’s so grateful that Dean is here helping him heal.

After a while, Dean backs off, goes back into the bathroom to wash his hands. When he returns, he presses his thumbs into the back of Castiel’s neck, traveling across his shoulders, rubbing small, firm circles. Castiel recognizes the apology in the touch, the attempt at comfort. _Relax, it’s over for now._

The tension slowly bleeds out of Castiel’s body, exhaustion setting in. His wings splay out, motionless, dark against the bedspread. He wishes he could keep them outstretched like this because right now it doesn’t hurt.

Dean seems to catch on to that line of thought. “Why don’t you keep your wings out of your vessel?”

Castiel tries to find an accurate analogy. “Imagine having to walk around all day with your arms held up.” He props himself up, shaking himself a little. Steeling himself. Now or never. “Watch out,” he warns as he slowly folds his wings, tucking them inside his vessel again.

Dean’s hands move down to the small of his back, palms warm and reassuring.

“I’m going to kill Raphael,” Dean vows, fierce. “I could rip him apart with my bare hands for everything he’s done to you.”

Castiel doesn’t reply. He lies back down and closes his eyes.

Dean takes his hand and squeezes. “We’ll get back to the front lines and we’ll get the bastard. We’ll win this war. I know it.”

Castiel wishes he had Dean’s faith.


End file.
